Stone Mortar
by canis-ursus
Summary: Severus Snape hates muggles. But a girl on wheel-chair, a poodle, a golden retriever, an orange Frisbee and a border collie change him.


**_STONE MORTAR_**

_A birthday present for Mita.___

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Muggles are hopeless.

Muggles are helpless.

Muggles are hapless.

But they are undeniably charming.

Well, at least I find it to be so with this muggle woman who sits on a chair-with-wheels, throwing an orange Frisbee so her huge golden retriever can run and fetch it for her.  I do not know what it is about her that holds me captive whenever I gaze at her.  Maybe it is the way the sun is reflected in her auburn hair, giving it a silk-like sheen.  Maybe it is the way she laughs when her dog comes bounding near, drooling proudly all over the orange Frisbee clamped in its jaw.  The way she rests her cheek on the dog's head, while her slender fingers tousles its thick shaggy fur.  The way she tilts back her head, closes her eyes and smiles at the sky as though expecting the sun to come down and kiss her.  The way her smile makes me think of kissing her.

I do not understand this sudden absorption with a muggle woman I hardly know.  I had apparated to this park one cloudy afternoon to deliver a package of scrolls bearing the names of the Death-eater new recruits and a few lay-out of the Dark Lord underground headquarters in the south.  I sat as I was told in one of the park benches, warily looking around me for any signs of the Death-eaters who might be following me.  I had donned what I thought was my best attempt at disguising as a muggle: a plaid flannel shirt in deep blue and green—sleeves rolled to my elbows and the top four buttons undone—over a black, long-sleeved t-shirt, a pair of rather stiff and thick trousers made of something called denim, and a rather worn pair of black leather boots with quite bulky soles, laced in front.  I shuddered to think what my fellow pure-blooded Death-eaters would say about my outfit.  But attracting undue attentions was the least I would want in this business that relies so much on stealth and camouflage.  So I tried to look as comfortable as I could ever hope to be in those strange, rather itchy clothes, suppressing the urge to look at my watch every thirty seconds.  

Then I saw her.  She was sitting on her chair-with-wheels, reading a book.  The wind blew a wisp of her hair over her face and she closed her book, marking the page she was reading with her fingers and tucked the errant lock behind her ear with the other hand before looking down with a fond smile at the big dog sleeping at her feet.  Something in her smile stilled me, and made me stare at her with wonder.  Maybe it was the innocence of the smile, the utter freedom from fear and suspicion, that caught me by surprise.  I have lived side-by-side with terror and malice and deceit for so long that I could not believe that there exists any creature so untouched by their freezing fingers.  

I did not know how long I sat there watching her return her attention to her book, the wind toying with her hair, the sun polishing its reddish-brown to gold and copper.  I jerked and nearly screamed in surprise when someone spoke to me softly. 

"It wouldn't do to let your guard down, Severus, even in a muggle territory like this." 

I turned and saw a fat, old woman in tight lime-green dress sitting at the other end of the stone bench, licking a cone of ice-cream, with a ridiculously tiny white poodle on her lap.  It was very hard, trying not to laugh, but I managed to, barely.  I knew that Albus Dumbledore was an expert in disguising charms—a very complex and demanding branch of transfiguration—but he never ceases to amaze me with the craft and finesse with which he conjured up his various and unpredictable transformation.  I also knew that disguising charm was nowhere as effective as polyjuice potions in turning someone into another, but Dumbledore had certainly made an art form out of it.  I did not know what happened to his long, flowing, silver beard, or how he spelled those thick, flabby folds on his sides, and the ghastly mass of red hair on his head, but were it not for the familiar twinkle in those dark eyes—heavily mascaraed and painted with green eye-shadows—and the unchanged voice coming between slurps of vanilla ice-cream topped with melted chocolate and a sprinkling of chopped nuts, I would never have recognized the horrible creature as Dumbledore, once my headmaster and now the only link I had with the world outside He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's domain of evil and greed. 

I reached casually inside my shirt pocket and produced some chewing gum.  I popped them into my mouth, keeping my eyes away from the fat lady beside me, and started to chew.  "Good afternoon, Albus," I said between chews, striving to make my lips move as little as possible.  

"Two more Death-eaters were found dead, Severus," reported Dumbledore—without much of a preamble—behind his ice-cream.  "And with the three found obliviated last month, and the other three who lost their minds to the cruciatus curse, that makes it eight Death-eaters out of Voldemort's league within the past two months."

I winced at the name and fancied a sudden tingling sensation on the dark mark in my arm.  I fixed my eyes on the woman on the chair-with-wheels.  She was stroking her dog's head, though her eyes were staring at the ducks swimming across the small lake in the park.  How did it feel, I wondered, to live without dread and paranoia?

"He suspects a traitor among his followers.  He's eliminating so many of them," slurped Dumbledore.  "Perhaps you'd better lie low for a while.  If you come across any more information that might come useful, wait until you are sure that it was not a bait to smoke out spies." 

"What if it's a muggle-raid plan?  Do I wait to see whether it is merely a set up or a true massacre before I report it to you?" I mumbled around the wad of chewing gum.  

"Nobody knows the risks of your occupation better than you, Severus," said Dumbledore before licking a speck of melted chocolate on his cherry-red lower lip.  "And I trust that you have taken the necessary precautions.  It's not in my place to warn you or tell you what you ought to do.  But do take care." 

"Relax, Albus.  I am not eager to rob the Order of my valuable service either," I said with as much scathing surliness as my tasteless glob of gum allowed.  

"We can't afford to, Severus," Dumbledore said with a smack.  "But if you wish to get out, you know you only have to say the word.  Your place in Hogwarts is assured, you know that.  You have done more than enough." 

I glanced at the old wizard from the corner of my eyes.  It was uncanny how his eyes seemed to look elsewhere while giving me the distinct feeling that he was scrutinizing me.  How did he know?  Did anything in my behavior betray my growing fear that my days as the Dark Lord's trusted potion prodigy were numbered and any moment now the Death-eaters would descend upon me, eager to deal their most sophisticated torture spells?  My jaw stopped working and I found myself gazing at the girl on the chair-with-wheels.  She had already stopped reading and was wheeling herself across the grass, her dog loping beside her.  

Any second now she would climb to the concrete path that bordered the grass and she would pass in front of me.  I sat motionless, gazing at the way the muscles on her bare arms flexed and tensed as she gripped and pushed with practiced ease at the shiny metal wheels rigged to the rubber wheels of her chair.  Nothing in the carefree way that she laughed or her effortless smile betrayed the strength and grace with which she performed such a pitiful act as pushing herself in that clumsy contraption of transport.  

I looked away in anger and disgust, overwhelmed by a sudden ridiculous notion of bringing the wretched woman to a magical hospital, where surely some spells or potions could be applied so she would not have to remain trapped to that accursed chair.  Then with astonishment I realized that it was not so much anger than sadness and regret that I felt about her.  It took a while for me to recognize the emotions, identifying them as something other than anger and loathing, the only sentiments I allowed to dwell in my heart.  The tenderness of the feeling caught me off guard and once again Dumbledore tore me out from my reverie with a violent jolt. 

"Severus, we have been here long enough," he said with a slurp.  

As if on cue, his poodle, who had been sleeping peacefully through the slurpy, chewy conversation, suddenly woke and started to jump around, yapping excitedly.  Dumbledore made funny cooing noises, and petted the dog fondly on the head.  Then out of the blue the little beast turned to me, bared its teeth and growled menacingly.  Without warning it launched itself at me and viciously bit me on my hip, tossing its head right and left while I leapt to my feet with a yell, the animated muff still firmly attached to my side. 

"Oooh! Stop! Stop!" screeched Dumbledore, his voice somehow turned two octaves higher.  "Don't hurt my Popski!  Oh, my poor Popski-lovski!  I said stop jumping about, young man!  You're hurting my baby!" 

"I'm hurting it?" I yelled in disbelief.  "What do you think it's doing to me?  Giving me a massage?" 

If I were not under considerable pain from the poodle's teeth buried in my flesh, I would have dropped right there and then and rolled on the concrete laughing at Dumbledore's hysterical antics.  But as it was, I could only feel a bizarre gratitude to whoever invented that material called denim, which seemed to absorb the brunt of the poodle's bite.  It would have gotten away with a sizable chunk of my hip if I had been wearing my usual trousers, which, while comfortably cool and light, were nowhere as thick as the denim trousers I had on.  

"Popski-love, Mummy's OK, darling, Mummy's OK.  The smelly man did not attack Mummy," crooned Dumbledore as he moved in to detach the poodle from my hip.  The poodle disengaged itself with the tiny envelope containing the files I was to give Dumbledore securely in its mouth.  Dumbledore deftly covered the envelope with a large, embroidered handkerchief, pretending to carefully wipe the poodle's snout, before stuffing everything, handkerchief, envelope and all into his leather purse.  "Did he hurt you, pumpkin?  Does your mouth hurt?  We have to see Doctor Pinkerton immediately, Popski-lovski-schlomski-babe, if you should get an infection…oh…" 

I bit my lip trying not to burst into laughter at Dumbledore's cooing and fussing.  He glared convincingly at me and sniffed his bulbous nose.  "When was the last time you bathed, young man?  My Popski-love will not attack anyone unless he smells like someone who hasn't been near water and soap for the last two days." 

I choked and coughed.  It was fast becoming a losing battle, containing the laughter that threatened to bubble up my throat, while keeping my face stern and angry and slightly bewildered.  Dumbledore seemed to be enjoying this too much, there was no reason why I should give him the satisfaction of knowing how funny I found the whole thing to be.  

"Let's get out of here, Popski-love," he said with disgusted finality.  "Before he gave us more germs!"  With a mighty snort, he whirled around and walked away, double chin up-tilted and his flabby stomach, waist and bottoms jiggling under her dress like lime-green pudding.  That was the last straw and I doubled over with laughter.   

It was sometime before I realized someone else was laughing with me.

I stopped suddenly and looked sideways to find the girl on the chair-with-wheels staring back at me, a hand over her mouth to muffle her chuckle and her eyes beaming with guilty mirth.  

"I'm sorry," she gasped when I continued to glare at her.  "But that was so funny.  I know I shouldn't've laughed but it was …"

Even her dog was sitting on its haunches, gazing at me with lips pulled back and tongue lolling.  

A sudden awkwardness brought my laughter to a standstill and an uncertainty to my heart.  Whatever the girl saw in my eyes must have been cold enough to extinguish the warmth of laughter in her eyes and she stared at me with only good-natured concern in her face. 

"You OK?" she said. 

After a few faulty starts that left me stupidly opening and closing my mouth like a beached whale, I managed to say, "I'll know after they've checked me for rabies." 

She smiled again.  I noticed the faint crinkles on the corners of her eyes when she smiled.  It made her look curiously vulnerable, childlike, but it also had the exquisite effect of making her smile seemed warmer, brighter, and I found myself sighing and basking in that radiance that came off her face.    

"So when did you bathe last?" she asked with a quirk of her eyebrows. 

I tried to scowl, but the smile radiating from those eyes made it impossible.  "This morning," I grunted.  "And now I had to do it again…" I said, rubbing my sore hip.  I had some scores to settle with Dumbledore after this. 

"Poodles are not known for their acute sense of smelling," she grinned.  "You have to forgive her.  Anyone will be nasty if they have to answer to Popski-lovski."

Her comment made me smile again, and she raised her eyebrows, looking pleasantly surprised.  "We should probably report that woman for animal abuse.  Imagine, giving the poor poodle such humiliating name," I growled. 

"You're handling it really well," she said.  "You'll be fine." 

"Thanks," I murmured.  I nodded suspiciously at her dog.  "He won't go after me, will he?" 

"I named him Duke.  Quite a respectable name," she chuckled.  "He's above chasing mongrels." 

"Meaning me?" I spat unconvincingly because the corners of my mouth were twitching to smile.  

"I didn't say that," another smile and a teasing glint in her eyes.  "Sure you're all right?"  There was genuine concern in her voice.  

"Never better," I said and though my voice carried a bitter irony, deep inside I meant every word.  

"Good then," she nodded.  "Have a lovely rest of the day." 

I shrugged with a badly-feigned irritation.  She rolled away on her chair-with-wheels, her dog happily trotting beside her.  I stood there watching her disappear behind the hedge, cursing myself.  What was wrong with me?  I had found her not only attractive, but mesmerizing to say the least.  She had been patiently kind, unwaveringly friendly, even though I was a stranger.  And all I could give her were scowls and murmurs? 

I sat back on the bench, burying my face in my hands, trying to ignore the steady throbbing on my hip.  Suddenly I wanted to disappear, lock myself in the dim chill of my chamber, never to come out again, because I suddenly realized what was wrong.  The girl was only incapable of using her legs.  But I … I could not use my heart, could not laugh and smile and talk in a warm, friendly manner; could not reach out and touch other hearts, other souls.  I was as cold and unfeeling as the stone mortar that I used to grind potion ingredients.  And just like the stone mortar, I continued losing bits and pieces of my heart and my soul; minute shards of myself going into the potions I brewed for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.  Like the stone mortar I would finally be too worn to be of any use, and would at last be cast aside and forgotten in some dark recesses of the dungeon.  Isolated.  Alone.  

***

And now here I am, many months later, in the same park, gazing longingly at the same girl.  The same muggle.  I shudder to think about how far I have gone.  There was a time when I loathed everything about muggles, thinking them unworthy to share this world with people gifted with wizarding powers.  But now I silently watch this muggle girl playing with her dog and think that her laughter is bewitching and that I am completely under the spell of the light in her eyes. 

Dumbledore had warned me that meeting at the same place more than three or four times might be dangerous.  It might rouse some suspicion.  But going to that park, looking at that muggle girl on the chair-with-wheels has become something of a tonic for me.  The way she waves and smiles from afar when she sees me somehow allows me to see beyond the narrow confines of the hostile, cruel world of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and I see hope.  

When she laughs while playing with her dog, I learn again the reason why I risk my life spying for Dumbledore.  Somehow that easy laugh makes all the nights when I wake up screaming from nightmares of torment and death more bearable, more worthwhile.  She might not realize it, but I am doing my small part in protecting her helpless lot from the terror that was the Dark Lord.  The thought made me laugh a bitter, derisive laugh, but I cannot deny that it gives me a measure of peace of mind.

A massive border collie comes bounding from behind a clump of bush and walks and sits before me, looking at me with tongue lolling and tail busy sweeping the concrete walkways. 

"Albus?" I whisper incredulously. 

"Woof," says the dog enthusiastically.  

I look around, feeling foolish.  Dumbledore did say, during one of our earliest briefings, that he might change himself into animal sometimes, to cover his track.  I do not think he is an animagus, maybe this dog is just another evidence of his superior skills with disguising charms.  After all, I do not think that even Albus Dumbledore would want to drink a goblet of polyjuice potion with dog hair thrown in.  Still, what if the dog is nothing more than a regular mutt and I end up revealing ultra-secret, very important information to someone's pet?  

"Woof," says the dog, as though reading my mind.  It puts its front legs on my lap and vigorously licks my cheek.  

"Get off, you!" I growl as I shove him aside.  But …  Wait …  I distinctly smell …  Yes.  No doubt about that.  There is the scent of Licorice Wand, mingled with a faint whiff of strawberry-flavored Sugarquill …  And yes …  A touch of Honeyduke's Furry Fudge, that silly new line of candy bars that purrs when stroked and growls when bitten.  Just a hint of Eeffot Toffee, the ridiculous candy that makes whoever eats it speaks backwards.  And … hmmm … isn't that …?  Ah, yes.  The Bopping Bonbons.  Guaranteed to make you fleet-footed and nimble enough to do any kind of dancing steps, including the most difficult of all, the ghost-twist.  The Headmaster's sweet-tooth is legendary, but sometimes I still marvel at his indiscriminate taste for sweets.  

Thankful that I am gifted with such a strong sense of smell, which is always an advantage when working with potions, I gently push the headmaster/border collie from my lap.  "That's enough, Albus," I say, trying to sound irritated.  "That's convincing enough!  Stop embarrassing me!" 

With a contented "woof!" the dog lowers itself to the ground and sits gazing up at me, his head angled a little to the left.  

"You do make a cute dog, Albus, you know that?" I say with a suppressed smile, running my fingers through the thick fur on the dog's neck.  "Too bad you're actually a rickety old wizard with a queer sense of humor.  Otherwise I might consider adopting you."

The dog growls softly and nudges at my wrist.  

"You're right.  You're probably not house-trained anyway," I smile slyly, enjoying this rare moment when I can poke fun at someone who usually get cauldron-loads of laugh at my expense.  

"Woof!" barks Dumbledore, sounding irritated.

"All right, all right," I mutter with a sigh.  Lowering my head and keeping my voice low, with my fingers buried in the thick fur on Dumbledore's neck, I begin to speak.  "You-Know-Who has heard of the prophecy, and you're right.  He's rattled.  He's sent out search parties to look for Potter and his boy, and they're closing in, fast."

Dumbledore stops panting and his eyes dimmed considerably.  

"If you care about them, and I know you do, you'd better do something quick," I continue.  "Last time we talked you mentioned something about the Fidelius charm.  Have you decided who the secret keeper will be?"

Dumbledore shook his shaggy head.  I heave a deep breath and close my eyes, wondering how I should break the next news.  "And there's another.  You have a traitor among you.  You-Know-Who let it slip last night.  Whoever he is, he belongs to Potter's inner circle of friends.  So be extra-careful when you choose the secret keeper.

It is uncanny to see such grave, troubled expression in the eyes of a dog.  

"And another thing," I croak into Dumbledore's snout.  "I am the only one who knows about the plan to hunt down Potter and the boy.  If you should make a move to protect them, You-Know-Who will know who you got the tip from."

Is it possible for dogs to cry?  As it is, the border collie's eyes seem to drown in watery sorrow.  

"I am not as eager for martyrdom as you probably think I am," I push on, hoarsely.  "You said that I can walk out anytime I want to."

I sigh deeply, but still my voice comes shaking like dying leaves reluctant to leave their autumn perch.  "I want to now."

The dog nuzzles at my wrist and for a while it seems to blur around the edges; there is an almost imperceptible shiver along the big, well-built form of the dog, and I experience a moment of panic when I wonder whether Dumbledore will be able keep his border collie disguise in the face of so overwhelming a distress as my decision to leave the service of the Dark Lord.  

"Tell me what I should do," I say, closing my eyes and concentrating my mind on respectfully penetrating the maze that was Dumbledore's thought.

I see myself step into a fireplace and throw a handful of floo powder in, then call out loud a destination.  My watch shows seven thirty, dinner time, tonight.  There are traces of burnt scrolls in the fireplace; I have to destroy all evidence which might lead He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to suspect me.  Then I walk into the fire and in a whirl of green flame, disappear.  But then the green flame blazes once again and one by one, the familiar figures of the Ministry's aurors step into my room and do a thorough job of turning everything upside down and inside out, leaving ample signs of struggling and battle: scorch marks on the wall, blood on the floor, broken furniture.  Then, as swiftly and soundlessly as they arrive, they vanish through the fireplace again.  There left only a dying bed of ash, faintly sending curls of blue-grey smoke.

I inhale deeply, and slowly retreat from the bridge that connects me with Dumbledore's mind.  I do not know if he can sense my deep gratitude and admiration of his clever tactics to let the Dark Lord believe that I have been captured by the Ministry.  It will trouble his dark thoughts, giving him the impression that somehow the Ministry has penetrated too deeply into his own network of evil; deep enough to snatch one of his most trusted minions.  I open my eyes and gaze at the dark eyes of the dog in front of me and I smile.  

"Thank you, Albus."

"Woof."

"I'm sorry the Order has to lose its most reliable spy."

"Woof."  Softer this time, with a gentle nuzzle and a lick on my wrist.

"I didn't know you have a dog."

I lift my face and see the girl on chair-with-wheels.  She stares at me with her usual warm and easy smile, Duke sitting beside her, warily eyeing Dumbledore.

"Yes," I comment.  "He doesn't usually want to be seen with me."

She laughs and pushes her chair closer.  "He's gorgeous.  What's his name?" she asks while gently running her fingers through Dumbledore's fur.

"Er…Albus," I answer with a suppressed laugh. I can see the fur standing up along Duke's nape and the big dog is growling under his breath.  Secretly I feel sorry for Albus because clearly Duke is not a dog to meddle with, especially when he sees a potential threat to his "mommy."  And Dumbledore seems to have posed such a threat and any minute now I expect Duke to pounce on Dumbledore and mince him to pieces, and I find the thought very funny.  I still have not forgotten the marks of his Popski-lovski's teeth on my hip after all.

"No, Duke," she chides the continuously growling retriever.  "Be friend with Albus now.  He's really a nice dog, isn't he?"

Dumbledore looks up at me with eyes twinkling with merriment and a touch of … worry?  I smile and pat him on the head.

"I always know you're a good person.  People with dogs are generally nice and I know a dog-lover when I see one," she says suddenly.  She chuckles a bit embarrassedly.  "You didn't hurt that awful poodle…what's her name, the one that bit you?"

"Popski-lovski," I blurt out unthinkingly, and she laughs out loud.

"You remember!" she says, wiping tears off her eyes.

I smile to see her so merry.  I revel in the sight of her lips parted when she smiles, her eyes glittering, her face alight.  She is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.  Broken and flawed, yes, but still she shines like the summer sun, radiant and infinitely warm.  I shall not see her again, never.  I can foresee days, weeks, months, maybe years of confinement, as much for my safety as for giving a convincing show that I have been arrested by the Ministry.  

There will never be again days when I sit and watch her from a distance, drinking in her laughter and her sparkling eyes; giving her a quiet, unsmiling nod when she turns my way and waves at me; hiding the fierce joy that permeates deep into my heart when I see that she still remembers me, that she does not in the least dislike me for my sour and frosty disposition.  I am secretly glad I never know her name, or the scent of her auburn hair, or the taste of her lips brushing against mine, or the feel of her skin under my reverent fingers.  The memories will torment me in her absence.  I will never see her again; the thought floods me with cold, unexpected sorrow.

She is, after all, only a muggle.

And muggles are hopeless.

Muggles are helpless.

Muggles are hapless.

But she—I muse as I watch her hand gently stroke Dumbledore's head—this muggle with the useless legs and a charming smile, will forever claim a treasured place in my heart.  Perhaps I have for a long time been a cold, unfeeling stone mortar.  But with the spell of the warmth in her eyes, she has given me back my soul and her laughter will forever echo in my blood. 

~fin~


End file.
